


A Scenario in which the Grand Duke of Leicester Takes Care of You When You're Sick

by MissArchie



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: ASMR???, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathing/Washing, Blood and Injury, Dehumanization, F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repressed Memories, Sickfic, You're Byleth and Claude and his staff take care of you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29609811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissArchie/pseuds/MissArchie
Summary: In this timeline, Byleth spends her five year intermission in the wicked hands of Agartha, eventually winding up in the same river she woke up in in the midst of her escape.  Not even Sothis’ divine protection can fully keep Byleth safe from the ills of the Empire's most dreaded allies.  Fortunately for her, her treasured ex-pupil comes to her rescue.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan, My Unit | Byleth/Edelgard Von Hresvelg (one-sided)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 33





	A Scenario in which the Grand Duke of Leicester Takes Care of You When You're Sick

**Author's Note:**

> I've seen ideas of Byleth falling into Agartha/TWSITD's hands ping-ponged around and I am absolutely enthralled with it. Meanwhile, the idea of a Claudeleth sick fic has also been ping-ponging in my brain for months, so I smashed them together. 
> 
> Oh, and Mr. Love Queen's Choice. Damn you, Gavin.

_"Heh...it seems that the Immaculate One has taken the stage at last, Your Majesty."_

_"So she has. It truly is she and those other monsters that have controlled this land for far too long."_

_"Far too long indeed...and to think that those damned ingrates who slither in the dark, of all people, share our values."_

_"Must you say that, Hubert?"_

_"Say what you will, but it is the truth. And your precious Professor is ultimately one of them..."_

_"...I will sway her yet. I must. Rhea and those other two have clearly poisoned her mind."_

_"If that is what you wish, Your Majesty, I have a plan. I highly doubt you will be fond if it, though."_

_When her humanoid shell of an ear picked up on those dastardly words, the professor in question had realized her scarily common foolishness far too late. She should've headed the white dragon's - Rhea's - warning. So mesmerized she was by her that she did not spot the milky-eyed, snow-skinned man in the black cloak._

_When she fell, she was greeted and ensnared by the sight of blood orange safflowers._

* * *

_Their vicegrip left it paralyzed. Even when the somnolence eased itself off of it, it could not move. Jitters and searing heat made it tremble, convalescing around the eerie hole where its heart ought to have been. Pain endlessly struck it in all corners of its body, flickering lights spotting its dim vision time and again._

_But as time wore on, it would seem that the Ashen Demon had found a use for them after all. It was what it told itself as blood and skin and essence gave way to creatures and tools. It surely was more dignified than the beatings and the touching and the odor of medicines and piss._

_Time and again, the ram-horned one would placate that none of this would have come to pass if it defied its inhuman bloodline and walked the path of thorns. Surely, that path would be more dignified than being trapped in chains and cages and strange vats of fluid._

_"With all of this, I will tear that damned Goddess apart...it's because of her and her church that the Empire is the way it is now..."_

_Those words made its chest stir. As the darkness grew deeper, the stirring whirred loudly, and it heard the Fell Star's voice once more. It was deeper than before, a timbre like that of an oboe - calming, yet ominous. For the first time, it felt at peace._

_"Honestly...you are so, so hopeless. But because of you, I am truly starting to remember..."_

_How could the almighty Fell Star thank it, a living corpse? As it pondered, the Fell Star's eyes began to glow. A massive thudding rippled throughout its host._

_"I know you are unwell," the Fell Star rasped, "But please...find it within you to live for a little longer...the people...my children...! They're lost in an abyss of suffering because of them! Because of her!"_

_It felt weak. No matter how much it tried, it struggled to even lift up its arms._

_“Your body is awake. Your eyes must open now, and you must find the strength to stand upon those legs of yours!”_

_Like shattering glass, the veil of weakness lifted. Through its screams of pain, it wrought havoc that evoked the Fell Star's halcyon days. It cursed and cried and screamed until it could no longer do so, blazing a path of green fire and light. It fled into the night for the first time in forever, uncaring of its surroundings. All that mattered was the feeling of the grass and the air and the sight of the stars. So enamored it was with its flight that it did not notice its descent into a violently flowing river until it was half submurged._

_Perhaps it was better this way. A dignified end for a demon..._

* * *

_**Imperial Year 1185** _

_**Ethereal Moon** _

_**Mach Hills** _

The early morning chill made Claude shudder, despite of his layers and the nicely armored gambeson his title granted him. During an impromptu trip back home he finally realized that that yes, there were parts of Almyra that had a chill comparable to many parts of Fódlan, but he had the luxury of not acclimating to it over a long period of time. It _also_ certainly helped that even the tallest peaks of the northern mountains of Qasr and the deepest forests of Jiaohe did not compare to the chilled winds of Garreg Mach. Or Faerghus' year-round snow, for that matter. 

A trio of sneezes rewarded him with a growl from Edgar, his Leicester-bred bull wyvern. He nervously giggled as he appeased him with a petting, half-convinced that Fódlan's wyverns were inherently ill-suited for him. He thought of his sweet Gordafarid, his lifelong friend and beautiful wyvern mare, sired by his own father's great bull yet outcast for her pristine white scales…

Edgar bucked.

"Heyyyy, pal, I'm not thinking of some other wyvern, I swear!" He said with exasperation. "You're worse than a mule, you know that?"

The bull grimaced, unsatisfied with his answer. Claude sighed.

The land below him certainly left much to sigh over. As the sun's first rays began to awaken the morning dew, Claude was forced to cover his mouth as the acrid stench of blood and sewage wafted in the air. As he surveyed the wash of yellowish greens and ochre-tinted browns of the landscape, he was at least able to affirm for himself that the Empire never re-obtained Garreg Mach and the lands surrounding it. Very odd, Claude thought, knowing damn well how much effort the former princess of toys and fire put in to seize it. As a stronghold, just about anyone could potentially turn a continent-wide war in their favor, provided they had tacticians of good acumen and ample supplies. But better to never look a gift horse in the mouth, as the saying went.

Claude pulled Edgar to a glide, forcing the wyvern’s wings to spread and still fully, and he sloped gently towards the ground. With a pull from the stirrups and a jump, Claude landed, thus making this only his second contact with the Mach Hills area in the span of five years. As he expected, it was eerily quiet, with nothing but wind, rustling grass, and the occasional buzzing sound serving as his companions.

“So much for living on the cusp of a thousand-year celebration, eh?” He said hypothetically to Edgar, who was too interested in a wandering squirrel to care. He sighed and continued his surveying of the land, taking care to muffle his footsteps in the grass. Much like hidden prey, he kept his ears and eyes open for potential predators; The rumor mill cited that bandit activity had spiked in the area, and there was also the constant presence of the Empire to consider. Any other person would likely opt to ignore a childish promise to reunite an academic class during war time, and double down on that resistance if it were to be located in a now-easily ransacked ghost town. 

But what one would see as a lost cause, Claude saw as an opportunity. What better time to assess and prepare in taking a big leap onto the war's stage than two months ahead of the promised day? 

There was a degree of earnestness in which Claude was dubbed the “Master Tactician” by his peers - he strove to live up to the title for a good reason, seeing as he was the sovereign of the smallest of Fodlan’s three countries, and if Count Gloucester's grousing were any indication, he was the second youngest in the country's history to take on the duty. But there was plenty of ribbing in the title that was arguably more in use. If anything, Claude sighed to himself, the immature title of “Tabletop Demon” suited him better. He was at ease with maps and pieces and planning, but in in real life, he might as well have thrown the set out the window and left things to fate. In the five years of the war's existence, it had happened far too many times for his liking. Ironic, seeing as he despised the notion at a foundational level, but he seemed more and more drawn to it these days.

So here he was, returning to the ruined Garreg Mach Monastery. In one hand, it was to plan his next steps, but on the other, it was for wishful thinking. The rest of the 1180 cohort of Golden Deer wouldn't be there, but he held on to a faint hope that a certain precious someone would be. The desire was both primal and wistful. All tenets of rationality in Claude's head screamed at him much like how many screamed at him as a child, dubbing him foolish, selfish. They screamed at him about how he was on the precipice of falling into a trap. 

After all, when he gave his heartfelt demand to Byleth that he’d meet her again the night the monastery fell, he did not get an answer from her - he ran off to prepare, with his eighteen-year old self assured that she’d follow without question, much like before.

_“She was getting really close to Seteth at that time,”_ Claude thought unbidden, grimacing as he spotted the town of Mach Hills in the distance. _“I wonder if she..._

He slapped himself, realigning himself with the present. Who was he to think such ugly thoughts? And yet…

He stumbled face first, unaware of the slope that surrounded this part of town. So much for being a dignified duke.

As he realigned himself, he spotted the tail end of the long river that surrounded the town - the western tail of the Airimid River, he recalled; Further west, it terminated at the southern portion of the area surrounding Garreg Mach into a large body of water called Lake Chevalier. Unlike the rest of the town, the river was in fair enough shape. The color was still blue with no sewage or odd sediment in sight.

Wait…

A strange blackish lump poked out of the mouth of the lake. How odd.

It looked far too peculiar to be an animal, but much too small to be some wayward Demonic Beast. Finding a decently-sized boulder nearby, Claude ducked behind it, taking advantage of the overgrown grass to hide in.

Judging by the shape’s contours, it was either some poor person's corpse, or it was someone acting as bait.

While the Failnaught made the trip with him, its glowing arrowheads were too risky to shoot, as all but the blindest foe could spot them when shot normally. Claude dug out a smaller composite bow - a bow ideal for close range combat and quick strikes - and fletched it, carefully concealing his breaths as he pulled his arms and chest taut. With a final, silent exhale, he fired his warning shot, the arrow whizzing stealthily through the grass. 

**_thunk_ **

Not even two paces from the lump, and it did not stir. One more shot, just to be sure. Less than a pace, dangerously close. Still no stirring, but Claude swore he saw a twitch.

Probably dead, he thought to himself.

He cursed to himself when he realized that he was short-handed on the smaller bow’s arrows, so he opted to crawl through the tall grass to retrieve the two he shot. Skulking like a snake, he waded. Naught but the last crickets of the evening and the occasional mouse were his foes, mercifully.

The grass' height steadily dipped as he crawled, eventually giving way to low clumps of wet dirt and shrubs when the lake’s mouth came into his line of sight. The lump sporadically twitched, and as Claude slithered closer, he became concerned when he thought he heard something resembling a moan.

Not dead after all?

Come to think of it…that cloak.

_“Where have I seen it before…?”_

Even at the distance he was at, he could see the white threads that interlocked into that strange, inverted flower-like knot. 

It was something only _she_ could have worn. _She_ even had a history with it - it was her father's history. It was one of the scant few things _she_ could recall in the haze of her past at all!

_“After I asked him thirty times, he finally relented,”_ she told him one day, holding the cape in front of him. _“Jeralt told me that it was the issue of our familial namesake...the Eisner family. Of course, that doesn’t matter in a mercenary company.”_ She tossed the cloak aside, letting it carelessly slide onto the carpet off of her desk chair. _“The name ‘Eisner’ has no weight. He told me it never really did. He refused to speak about it again after that.”_

Could it be…?

Closer and closer he slid, uncaring of the wet earth staining and ruining his beautiful kamarband. He’d ruin a hundred of those if it meant…

_“A flower by one name smells just as sweet as another, no matter the land it has blossomed in,”_ He had told her, drawing closer to her in that memory with the same energy as he did in the grass. The knot on the cape was far closer than before, seemingly mocking him. _“I’d be no different if I were not a Riegan, you know. I’d be the same flower that you see here.”_

_“You’d be a myrtle flower, then.”_

Claude nearly choked on spittle at the memory, unaware that his nose was brushing on the back of the lump.

_“A myrtle flower, Teach?” Why that one?_

_“I can’t explain it all that well,”_ she said softly _,_ delicately brushing the white roses Lorenz had sent her earlier in the week. _“When I was looking for flowers to grow last week, I saw them in a book. They were flowers that were said to have a scent that brings people together.”_ A sniff. _“Legends painted it as a symbol of righteousness, a flower that spread good deeds. There was this elaborate story featuring it, and it felt strangely familiar…”_

_Claude’s eyes dimmed. That damned paranoia flared to life in the back of his head._

_Myrtles and their precious mythos were native to Almyra._

_“I wish I knew why I found it so familiar,”_ she said softly, her face contorting to that delicate, cat-like softness that came when she was distressed. _"Up until this year, I could barely remember anything that wasn't in regards to survival and battle."_

_"Teach…"_

_"You're trying to cheer me up. It's working, mostly."_ She sighed. _"But…"_

Boldly and shyly, just as Claude in the present carefully, _carefully_ turned the body over, eyes wide at the sight of her bruised body and matted hair, Claude of five years ago gently placed a hand on his teacher's shoulder, giving her an awkward yet genuine grin.

_"I'm sure that little mystery can be solved in due time, Teach. Now how about we get this lovely lotus some dinner?"_

_"Lotus?"_ Her eyes were wider than a kitten's. _"So no matter what my name would be, I'd be a lotus?"_

_"Absolutely, Teach."_ He winked, and it elicited a soft smile, one he was greatly endeared to. _"How about we talk about the greatness of the lotus over some delicious roasted pheasant?"_

_"That would be lovely."_

And much like a lotus that withstood turbulent waters, Byleth Eisner was here in the mouth of Lake Chevalier, derived of consciousness and near-drowned. Claude still felt like he had entered one of those strange dreams he'd have when struck with a fever. Calfskin gloves and graceful fingers slithered and grasped at her matted hair, now far longer than before and dulled like filthy weeds from the lake. While the old cape remained, in lieu of her oddly cut old armor was a filthy black tunic, hempen and torn. Bruises and pinpricks of all colors dotted and stained her body, and Claude could not help but wince at the sight of the large purplish gashes on her hips and arms. It was _horrible._

His fingers gently slid onto the lower portions of her jawline, spotting a thready yet present pulse. He felt as though he could’ve wept with joy, but it did not happen.

“...Teach…”

The faintest, pained little gasp emerged from her lips, only blossoming into a faint cry when one of his fingers accidentally brushed one of the redder bruises on her arm. Before he could blink, that faint string of consciousness slipped from her once more, stewing in her fevered skin.

Feeling a little selfish, Claude embraced her, and neither the idiotic war nor his troubled homeland mattered - No, not even that fated class reunion he still clung to, which was still two moons away. In this little patch of dirt and wetland, Claude had his Byleth all to himself.

_“...’My’ Byleth?”_

His face blossomed red, and how silly he felt for thinking it! This was the first time he had seen her in half a decade! Surely a full year with this strange teacher of his didn’t leave _that_ kind of mark, did it?

Perhaps it did...and that was a problem.

It _should_ be considered a huge problem.

It _was!_

Of course, it felt like the opposite of a problem as Byleth’s soft lily scent managed to somehow break through her cold, clammy skin and rivery stench. He felt his heart ache with want, having realized how deeply he had missed her after all this time.

And while she was out like a light and likely very sick, any kind of bonding was bonding nonetheless. She looked as though she could’ve used some good, gentle bonding in light of whatever the _hell_ happened to her.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” he whispered in her ear, a gentle puff on the lobe. “Whatever happened to you...whatever the _hell_ it was...is over now.”

He could’ve sworn he felt her stir in his arms again, coming closer. 

“I never gave up on you coming back,” he continued, using his newly-built strength to carry her back to Edgar. “I had hoped that you - ”

“Ah…”

He briefly stopped, feeling her gasp in pain once more. Damn him and his immodesty - this was no longer just about him, no matter how much he wished it to be. He took great pains to get her comfortably in the saddle, awkward as it was, before slipping his own feet into the stirrups and lifting himself onto Edgar’s back. A spare verdant cloak was wrapped around her, as the high altitude’s chilly air would make her sicker. She looked as comfortable as one could be on a flying mount, body slack against his chest.

He tried to ignore his flagrantly hammering heartbeat at the sensation of her body against his.

“...All that I want for you to know now is that I hope you aren’t too surprised when you wake up.” His breath ghosted her ear once more, and he felt himself grow warm again. “No matter what happens, I...want you to see it. That new dawn I told you about, remember? You still need to...”

Dawn’s rays basked them in a warm glow, giving the golds of his armor and her minty-colored hair an almost ethereal appearance. Some great force seemed to be sending them a message, Claude thought as he snapped the reins and bought Edgar into a takeoff. As he began to ascend, he could feel her stirring once more, almost nervous-sounding as she let out what sounded like a cross between a whimper and an injured cry.

“Shh…”

His strong arms enveloped her as much as he could without losing control over the reins. As luck would have it, the day was young and a tailwind had gently kicked in from behind. If he or a close ally had the Warp spell on hand, then he’d happily resort to it if it meant helping Byleth recover. But there was something almost magical in being in the air with her like this, wet clouds and sunlight blanketing them. 

It felt romantic, for lack of a better term.

“The estate’s staff and I are going to take good care of you,” Claude whispered into Byleth’s ear, feeling her calm. “Just you wait.”

And off they went.

**Author's Note:**

> **FOOTNOTES**
> 
> \- The Four Apostles’ erasure from history was seen as necessary due to the nature of what they had attempted - the resurrection of Sothis. While these four Crest-bearers did drink the blood of the Divine Seiros' kin, their alignment with her over the Elites and friendship touched the prophetess to the point that she paid tribute to them in subtle ways. Saint Noa's namesake was given to a popular pulpy fruit native to eastern Leicester territory, while Saint Chevalier's namesake was given to the lake of fertile soil in which the western half of the Airimid River terminated. Saint Timotheos' Crest was inlaid on the granite floor of Garreg Mach's Star Terrace as a nod to the Saint's contributions to the field of astronomy. Finally, Saint Aubin's Crest was engraved on the Scepter of the Earth Father, a highly important piece of regalia used for church ceremonies and coronations; The Scepter itself is styled after a dragon with ties to Saint Cichol.
> 
> \- In the Japanese version of the game, the Crimson Flower route is called the Safflower Route.
> 
> \- In keeping with the _King Lear_ theming of the Leicester Alliance, the brown wyvern that Claude rides on as a Wyvern Master is named after the Earl of Gloucester's legitimate son.


End file.
